Dancing Through Smoke
by ava jamison
Summary: Batman catches Catwoman. But what does he catch her at?


Three blocks away, the fire in the diamond district was a plume of smoke, a ribbon that curled up from the ruins of 47th street all the way to the waxing moon, a silvery crescent sinking slowly on the predawn horizon. From the rooftop of the Acme building, here at Robinson and Kanigher, Batman watched the final efforts of Gotham PD. There had been no one to rescue; whoever started the fire wasn't a killer, at least. Just a thief.

One who'd made off with over three million dollars' worth of stones.

Criminals were a superstitious and cowardly lot, and he waited, watching, for the perp to return to the place of the crime. Mentally he checked off a list of suspects in his head, ran through the usual suspects. Only one stood out, and after a moment, he caught sight of her, her lithe body limned in moonlight. She was a block away, between him and the fire.

He shot his grapple and leapt, cape swirling as he dropped from the side of the building, then arced upwards again: three buildings in quick succession, then landing beside her, only a few feet away.

As light of foot as she was light of finger, she took off, and he was fast on her heels but there was something different about her running tonight, she was off, and when he tackled her she smelled like smoke. Smoke and fear, a scent he did not know on her. It was new, and disconcerting. Always before, this was all a game to her and this was not the way the game was played. Pinned beneath him, she snarled, slashed out with her claws, stinging the side of his face.

He wrapped her wrists in one gauntleted hand. She writhed, fighting beneath him, and because he was off, now, himself, thrown off by her own fear, he let down his guard. Enough that she kneed him, bowed her lower body hard enough that she was able to get her feet between the two of them. She threw him off. He rolled, came up standing, and she did too, whip at her side. It lashed out, suddenly, licking at his ankles and he drew out his own batarang, determined. He slung the thing at her and it spun, circling her knees, her hips.

Quick as a cat, she caught herself on her hands, but her legs were hopelessly tangled, and she couldn't get up before he was on her. She slashed out at him, again and again, but he dodged, parried, as they fought like that on the ground, until he'd pinned her. Carefully, he got up, lifting her by her wrists until she was suspended over the rooftop's surface, still twisting and writhing, small booted feet kicking at air.

"Where were you tonight?" He growled, voice low.

"None of your business," she spit out, still fighting him until the batarang slid from her body.

"If I put you down will you listen to me?"

She nodded, stopped fighting.

"Do you promise?" he whispered.

"Yes," she purred back, her voice hoarse with smoke.

He lowered her to the roofs surface and she took off again, just as he'd thought she would. Not like he'd hoped she would, but exactly like he'd known she would. He sighed, taking off after her.

Three rooftops later he had her pinned again, and this time he let a good portion of his weight rest on her body, let it stop her writhing as she lay under him, small and warm against his chest. There was a smudge of soot on her cheek and he wanted to wipe it from her face, but he didn't. She wasn't his to touch, unless she wanted it. She was his to fight, when it was right to do so, his to detain, his to watch. She was not his to touch, unless she welcomed it, and so far she had not, not today, not any day.

It was a strange thing to consider, right now, with her beneath him and the sky overhead and a fire that could have killed someone and three million dollars missing. He did not like considering it, and what it said about him—where his mind was. It must be the smoke he'd inhaled, getting to him. He shook his head to clear it.

"I know where you were," he said. "What you did."

"You don't know a thing about me," she hissed. Her eyes flashed; her breath hot on his cheek.

"I know that this job isn't your style," he said, and she stilled beneath him. "You'd steal the millions in a second—"

"Of course I would."

"But you wouldn't use a fire to do it."

Beneath him, her emerald eyes met his.

"And you wouldn't endanger innocent lives. There was someone in the building when it went up."

"Was there?"

"And you went in and saved him."

"I only look after myself. Surely you know that, Batman."

"Don't try to fool a detective. You wear the evidence."

Her eyes narrowed.

"May I?"

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Just the slightest movement of her head, and after having her writhing, throbbing body beneath him it was a delicate and soft thing to reach out and wipe the smudge from her palely lit cheek, watch her face change as he rubbed the soot between his thumb and forefinger.

Beneath him, he felt her whole body uncoil, relax, even if it was only for a moment. He rolled off of her and extended his hand. Let her use it to pull herself up, until they were both standing beside each other, under the slowly dawning sky. For a split second he had an insane thought, and that was to ask her if she wanted to help him, to assist him in finding the firebug, finding this particular diamond thief. She'd have a personal stake in this one. Someone was infringing on her territory, stealing the loot that he was sure she thought of as her own.

She stared at him for a moment, her head inclined again, just barely. If he hadn't let her absorb every atom of his attention, he wouldn't have noticed it, but he did. She was recalculating him, he could see that, and he wondered if some kind of understanding could be reached between the two of them. She wasn't bad, not really. He knew that as surely as he knew anything. Perhaps he could convince her of that, bring her over to the side of right—

And then she smiled, and ran, and he knew that line of thinking would ruin him.


End file.
